A Civilized Nature

This midsummer night's vision came not at some remote Everglades outpost, but on the back porch of my home in Pelican Bay-a place that I have found to be the source of many such surprises. People have their notions about Pelican Bay-that it's a snooty enclave of upscale homes and trendy shops-but spend a little time here, look closely, and you may change your mind. To me, Pelican Bay is one of the most perfectly realized blends of nature and civilization in Southwest Florida-or anywhere, for that matter.

Shortly after I moved into my Pelican Bay condo, a pair of mourning doves became my neighbors for the spring, meticulously constructing a nest and eventually giving birth on the plastic fire hydrant case outside my front door. Great egrets sometimes hunt for their lunches in the bushes by our mailboxes or along the edges of the lake, which is home to at least two giant turtles and a fish that my neighbor swears is a distant relative of the Loch Ness monster. Last summer, a flock of ducklings was born in the Bermuda grass near the lake; for weeks, the family took group swims each morning, until the baby ducks grew into adolescents and flew off to pursue their own destinies.

Nearby nature trails slice through shallow marshes teeming with shore birds-even an occasional roseate spoonbill-leading to thick mangrove forests where two naturally canopied boardwalks cross canoe parks en route to the Gulf beach. These are wonderfully primitive places to walk, bike or run, particularly early in the day, before the heat or the trams arrive.

Pelican Bay in summer often seems like a wilderness. This is the season when most of its 13,500 human residents go elsewhere and nature comes to roost-which is one of the things I like best about living here. I also like the incongruity of nature and civilization making such a (so far) lasting peace.

Bordered by Vanderbilt Beach Road to the north, Seagate Drive to the south, U.S. 41 to the east and the Gulf of Mexico to the west, Pelican Bay is a 2,100-acre, self-contained oasis amid the traffic-clogged mishmash of north Naples. There aren't many good reasons to leave Pelican Bay once you settle in. Everything you need is here-grocery and drug stores, private beaches, a public library, world-class dining (the Ritz and the Registry), casual dining (Lulu B's, the Beanery), serious shopping (Waterside Shops), funky shopping and a 5,000-square-foot community center (soon to be expanded to 20,000 square feet). Pelican Bay is also home to one of the finest performing arts centers in the country. If you're fortunate enough to be employed by that arts center-as I am-you don't even need to leave Pelican Bay to go to work.

Pelican Bay is a pocket of civilization with virtually no recorded history. Twenty-five years ago, when developers unveiled their plans to build a community based on "preservation, conservation and development"-in that order-there was nothing here but forest and marshland. The idea was to first pick the lands that would be preserved and then build around them-single family residences, cluster villas and condos. It was an unusual concept that proved hugely successful, and became a model for other developments to the north and east. Condos in Pelican Bay started out at around $65,000; now units in the Bay Colony neighborhood begin at $2 million.

With success there have been a few problems-but not many. A massive project is under way to restore 50 acres of mangroves that died off below the balconies of Pelican Bay's choicest high-rises. And there have been several controversies in recent months over architectural design and signage. One building under fire has a base width that detractors point out exceeds that of the Empire State Building.

The uniqueness of Pelican Bay has attracted some high-powered CEOs and even a few celebrities, among them television's Judge Judy Sheindlin, who has a home in Bay Colony. For a while Judge Judy and her husband Gerry (aka Judge Gerry) were spotted frequently at the Albertson's shopping center, shih tzus in tow. They've been less visible since the National Enquirer ran a cover story last year alleging that Gerry was carrying on with a waitress at Lulu B's. The story played the tabloids for weeks, although many in Pelican Bay, not being Enquirer readers, missed the whole thing.

But there has been little real scandal in Pelican Bay-not even a single murder, according to the Collier County Sheriff's Office. It remains something of a idyll, seemingly immune to the growing pains that surround it, a theme park whose theme is nature, a place where, both in summer and winter, the living is easy. Rather than drive in ovals around the Vanderbilt Beach parking lot for 45 minutes searching for a space, you can hop on a tram and an amiable retiree will chauffeur you down the nature trails and through the mangrove forests to a private beach. I love riding the trams, listening to the drivers talk about the weather (both here and up North). At the beach, attendants set you up with a beach chair, umbrella and cozy beach towels as soon as you arrive.

While many intersections in north Naples bear no resemblance to what they looked like even three or four years ago, Pelican Bay hasn't changed much and probably won't-it's almost entirely built out now, according to the Pelican Bay Association. But as the area around Pelican Bay continues to grow, many north Neapolitans have begun using Pelican Bay Boulevard as a short-cut to other places, which does not sit well with residents. Some have suggested that the whole community-it's actually 88 separate communities-be gated, and there have been attempts at incorporation. For those of us who live here, Pelican Bay is a paradigm, a living monument to how nature and civilization can work together, as more or less equal partners. It's no wonder people want to protect that.

Which brings me back to last summer-the summer a six-foot alligator came to live in our lake. A week or so after I first spotted him-by this time the gator was a familiar sight, sunning itself in the grass every afternoon-I went out for a walk. It was a strange, breezy, fog-shrouded night, and as I wound around Oakmont Lake the moonlit clouds reflected eerily through the fog off the water's surface. There were no other lights, no signs of human life, and for a while the mists that drifted through the trees seemed wonderfully primeval. But as I headed back in the general direction of my home, I began to hear a more familiar sound, and it took a few minutes to realize what it was-the muffled roar of cars and trucks along U.S. 41, speeding to points north and south.